


Before & After

by VolarFinch



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Catharsis, Dead Jschlatt, Dead Wilbur Soot, Dream SMP Spoilers, Dream SMP finale, Dream Smp, Gen, Ghost JSchlatt, Ghost Wilbur - Freeform, Headcanon, It's foggy folks!, JSchlatt's there I guess, Minecraft, Minecraft Creative Mode, Minecraft Creative Mode is the afterlife, My interpretation of Wilbur's afterlife experience, No shipping, Post-Canon, Post-Finale, References to Canon, i wrote this in a fugue state
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolarFinch/pseuds/VolarFinch
Summary: “We must be made for each other,” Wilbur jokes, a flicker of amusement in his chest at the disgusted look Schlatt gives him. He can’t remember the last time he made a joke.“I come to pick your sorry ass up and this is how you treat me,” Schlatt grumbles, but there’s no real bite to his words. He waggles his finger in Wilbur’s face, and Wilbur looks at him vaguely amused. “This’ll be the last time you see me helpin’ anybody out. Ain’t making that mistake twice.”“I don’t think either of us have done a whole lot of ‘helping’,” Wilbur points out. Schlatt goes quiet. The truth of his words weigh heavy in the air around them.| Or Wilbur, JSchlatt, and After. Spoilers for Dream SMP Finale.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 9
Kudos: 204





	Before & After

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to day two of me entering a fugue state to write for Dream SMP ft. Wilbur Soot and JSchlatt and my interpretation of their afterlife. I had the thought this morning that those videos they do together, particularly the "Every Five Minutes The Water/Lava Rises" videos, give off the vibes of two dudes chilling in the afterlife and fucking around, so I wanted to write something very loosely inspired by that.
> 
> Wilbur's characterization is largely based on how he acted in chat the day after the Finale (11/17) when Tubbo, Quackity, and Fundy were streaming and rebuilding, which seemed sort of… numb. Plus he got a new skin!
> 
> Note: hc that "skin" is the term for whatever you're wearing when you respawn––it's anything that isn't armor and items, essentially, such as clothes and jewelry.
> 
> ALS: It's fandom etiquette to keep fandom stuff WITHIN the fandom. The creators don't owe us anything and are their own independent people. If they want the fic/fics in general taken down, then the fic will be taken down.
> 
> FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT MENTION THIS TO THE CONTENT CREATORS AND THIS IS NOT SHIP. I CANNOT STRESS BOTH OF THESE POINTS ENOUGH. This is me writing about the CHARACTERS and NOT the Real People.

Wilbur opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is endless sky––white trickling into pale blue, as if the concept of storms and chaos has never existed. He stares at it for a long time, orienting himself. He can just barely feel the ground he’s rested on. Grass laces through his fingers. No clouds can be seen in the sky above.

Wilbur, slowly, mechanically, sits up. His bones don’t creak with old injuries. His muscles don’t protest from the movement. His chest doesn’t burn––not with oxygen, not with rage, not with grief. He can’t recall the last time he felt this… free. His first moments of when he spawned all that time ago, maybe; those weightless seconds before the world clung to his feet and ripped his heart out. He feels like that again. The feeling doesn’t leave as he stands up.

The world around him is empty. That’s the first thing he notices. The sky is that gentle lulling blue that nearly fades into white in the far horizon. The world is endless green plains. The grass tickles at his ankles, taking full advantage of the small gap between his jeans and his sneakers.

Wilbur pauses. His brain begins to function, bit by bit, as he finally looks down at himself. His previous skin is gone––no longer is it his rebel’s black and brown, nor is it his L’Manberge blue and red. What meets his eyes is a familiar yellow sweater and a pair of black jeans. He tries to think of when he last wore this sweater. He can’t remember.

His hands make their way to his gut, lingering, hesitant. His memories are still foggy and distant––he’s numb again. Not as Before, where everything that made him had been scooped out and burned, but just as… there’s nothing. That burning in his chest is gone. The voices in his head are quiet. It’s so quiet.

He lifts up the sweater and looks at his chest. He’s faintly surprised by the lack of a gaping, bloody hole––the only evidence of his death is a thin white scar. Wilbur imagines this is how the injury might have looked once it were fully healed. He pokes the skin experimentally, tensing, but there’s no pain. There’s not even an ache. It’s as if the injury is years old instead of… however long it’s been. Seconds, maybe.

Wilbur lowers his sweater and stares at his hands. His fingers grip the yellow of the fabric loosely, drinking in the color yellow. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen so much yellow. Everything has been tinged red for so long it’s… dizzying to see something else. To be encompassed by something else.

“Well get a load of your sorry ass.”

Wilbur turns, eyes wide.

J. Schlatt looks different. It shouldn’t surprise Wilbur but it does. His usual stiff business attire has been replaced with a loose t–shirt and sweatpants. His dress shoes have been swapped out for cartoony goat slippers. His hair is messy and wild, as if he's just woken up; his horns are nearly hidden in his mane of hair. Even his eyes are different––that burning, that _panic_ , that Wilbur is so used to seeing in Schlatt’s yellow eyes is gone. He looks calm for once. Content, Wilbur might be willing to say.

Wilbur waits for the rush of emotions he always felt Before when he saw Schlatt––anger, pain, grief, and betrayal. None of it comes.

Wilbur lets out a breath he hasn’t been aware he’s been holding.

“Speak for yourself.” Wilbur’s surprised at how smooth his voice is. It’s no longer cracked and hoarse with anger. It’s steady and comfortable; it doesn’t hurt to talk anymore. “You’re a sorry–looking sight.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Schlatt says, taking a few steps closer. He offers a half–grin, the same one that used to piss Wilbur off to no extent Before. Now, he finds he doesn’t quite mind it. “I’m off the job. I don’t need nobody critiquing my casual style. I’m on vacation.”

“That’s how you’re looking at this?” Wilbur asks, raising an eyebrow.

Schlatt barks out a laugh and throws his arms out. “It’s life’s biggest vacation! Best get used to it, four–eyes.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, and it’s only then he notices his glasses. He pushes the frames up on his nose. He’s missed their weight, strangely enough. His eyes don’t feel as strained as they always did when he wore contacts.

“I’m plenty used to it,” Wilbur replies, and it’s mostly true. He’s not disoriented, really, just numb. It’s like all the fight’s been drained from his chest and no one’s bothered to fill it up with something else. “What is this place anyways? Doesn’t necessarily look like all fire and brimstone like I was promised.”

Schlatt shrugs. “Who’s to say? It’s After. There’s no real death in this fucked–up plan of existence, so this is probably the best the Admins could scramble together when we didn’t want to respawn.”

Wilbur nods like it makes perfect sense. To him, it does.

“Kind of fucked up how we’re the sorry sacks of shit that got stuck together in the end, huh?” Schlatt muses. 

“We must be made for each other,” Wilbur jokes, a flicker of amusement in his chest at the disgusted look Schlatt gives him. He can’t remember the last time he made a joke.

“I come to pick your sorry ass up and this is how you treat me,” Schlatt grumbles, but there’s no real bite to his words. He waggles his finger in Wilbur’s face, and Wilbur looks at him vaguely amused. “This’ll be the last time you see me helpin’ anybody out. Ain’t making that mistake twice.”

“I don’t think either of us have done a whole lot of ‘helping’,” Wilbur points out. Schlatt goes quiet. The truth of his words weigh heavy in the air around them.

Before is still foggy for Wilbur, but he knows what he did. He knows all of it, distinctly, in his heart. He knows the pain and frustration and grief he’s caused. He can barely hear the murmur of voices, begging for him to come to reason, though it’s distant. He can’t see any of it clearly, just vague blobs of color, but the residue sits heavy in his empty chest. 

“Well,” Schlatt speaks up, quieter, “nothin’ we can do about that now.”

“No,” Wilbur agrees, voice just as soft with realization. “I suppose not.”

He wonders how long it’ll take for the pieces of him to sort themselves out. Schlatt seems to have done so already in however long it’s been between their deaths and now. He seems calmer and more content––less twitchy and paranoid. Wilbur vaguely hopes he’ll be the same, once everything comes back to him. _If_ , his brain supplies, it comes back to him. He doesn’t think he’d mind if it never came back. He’s dealt with far–too–many emotions for one lifetime.

“So,” he prompts, because he’s never been one to exist in silence, “what do we do now?”

“Fuck if I know,” Schlatt replies with a shrug. He waves a hand absentmindedly. “Shit here just goes on forever. Doesn’t stop. No biome changes or anything.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow.

“Really? No changes at all?”

“None! The interior design here fucken stinks, Wilbur. It fucking _stinks_.”

Wilbur lets out a laugh, and it doesn’t lilt up with instability. Something about Schlatt, his long–time enemy, complaining about the interior design of the hastily crafted After was so wild to him he can't help but laugh. He doesn't _want_ to smother his laughter either. He just wants to let it out, let it free; he grins and relaxes.

“C’mon, man,” he says, nudging Schlatt, “there’s gotta be something you like. The blue’s nice.”

“ _Ugh_ , blue,” Schlatt grumbles, as if the color has personally offended him. “Can’t we get a different sky color for once? Like––like green! Or yellow!”

He pauses, sending that disgusted look to Wilbur’s yellow sweater.

“Actually, fuck yellow, too,” he adds firmly.

Wilbur sputters out another laugh.

“Yellow’s a nice color!” he insists. It’s the closest he’d felt to passionate since opening his eyes. “I, for one, think there should be more yellow.”

It’s like the flick of a switch. One moment it’s endless white and blue above, the next yellow flowers flood the fields. He hears Schlatt inhale sharply next to him, and Wilbur can only stare as the universe clicks a piece into place at his request. He waits to feel a thrum beneath his skin––the yearning for power, for chaos, for TNT––but feels nothing. He just looks out over the flowers and marvels at how many they are. They’re so yellow, the same shade as his sweater. It takes his breath away.

“Holy smokes,” Schlatt mutters besides him.

“No kidding,” he agrees.

“This place could use a lake or something,” Schlatt experiments with a familiar dismissive tone. Wilbur doesn’t believe it––he watches Schlatt crack an eye open and look for changes.

He’s not sure when the ocean appears but it does––it just exists suddenly, an endless expanse of blue going farther than their eyes can see. Wilbur stares at it and wonders how deep it goes. Not very deep, his gut tells him, but he could change that if he wanted. It can go on as deep as he wants it to.

“Christ.” The amazement at the situation is evident in Schlatt’s tone. He’s got that same wide–eyed look on his face that Wilbur must have; there’s no malicious intent behind his eyes either. Just the same genuine wonderment at the world around them.

Whatever thrum of greed and anger that once existed under their skin is long gone. They’re clean slates––like the world around them. There’s no needs wherever they are. They don’t have any particular needs themselves––Wilbur hasn’t needed to breathe since he opened his eyes. He does it because it’s instinct.

“I wonder what else we can do,” Wilbur murmurs, and there’s no trick in his voice, no undertone to suggest anything malevolent. He doesn’t want to see the world go to shit––he just wants to see what he can make. Like those first days after spawn, free and left to his devices, brain surging with ideas and plans and beauty.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur can hear the offer in his voice. There’s no hesitance to him, nothing to suggest he’s nervous. Yet Wilbur can see the stiffness in his shoulders; he can see the way his jaw is clenched for rejection. 

The numbness within him is starting to edge away, slowly, but nothing rotten takes its place. It’s like a bottle being opened to make room for something new. Something better. Something… freer.

“Yeah,” Wilbur agrees. There’s no part of him that screams that Schlatt is lying, that he’s manipulating him, that he’s going to kill him, that this is all just a ruse. Whatever part of him that had been so scared and upset and confused is… gone. He’s just assured now. Content, as he’d described Schaltt earlier. “We do.”

“Well,” Schlatt says, that easy grin back on his face, “let’s fuck around and find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Comments are greatly appreciated!!
> 
> And again, PLEASE do not reference, mention, or show this to the content creators!! It's fandom etiquette to keep fandom stuff WITHIN the fandom. The creators don't owe us anything and are their own independent people––if they want these fics taken down, then the fics will be taken down.


End file.
